A Woman Named Damaris Page 15

  Damaris nodded dumbly. She would go back and read—as many times as it took—until she could understand why Miss Dover was so excited about the fact that the Damaris of the Scriptures had believed the report of the man called Paul.

  ———

  It took Damaris many days and many readings until she began to understand the meaning of the Scriptures. She had to go back and reread the Gospels again and again. At last she was able to put the stories of the life and death of Christ together with the persistent teaching of the Apostle Paul. “It is true,” she whispered to herself as she lay tucked in her bed one night. “All the stories about Him are true. He really lived—and died—and lives again. And I can know Him. Can know Him—in my—my very being. In my heart. My mind. I don’t really know the spot—but I know that He can be with me—in me—just as the Bible says.”

  That night, tucked under blankets to ward off the chill of the room, Damaris became a believer. Warmth more comforting than that of any quilt flooded her whole being as she took the important step of faith. She still did not fully understand it. She still had much to learn. She still had many troublesome scars from her past that needed healing, but she knew one thing with certainty. She was a believer. Just like the Damaris of the biblical account. She had made her own, deliberate, thoughtful decision, followed by genuine repentance and a prayer of faith.

  She found it hard to sleep that night, so anxious was she to share her discovery with Miss Dover. She knew that the older woman would be thrilled to know that her prayers had been answered.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Scars

  Damaris lived with the joy and peace of her newfound faith for two years before her past began to trouble her. Gradually she became aware of her intense feelings toward her father. She had tried to push them aside and not think of the anger that accompanied any thoughts about him. He was just some distressing presence from her past. She was through with him—finished. Why should he bother her now?

  Yet as Damaris continued to read the Bible with greater understanding, she kept coming across disturbing passages that spoke of forgiveness—of love. She began to wonder if the Jesus she now served expected her to forgive one who had so often and so cruelly wronged her.

  Try as she might, Damaris could not push aside the matter as easily as she once had. But neither could she forgive. She struggled with her problem but she did not discuss it. Not even with Miss Dover. Damaris pretended that the bitterness was no longer buried within her—and for the most part, she succeeded in hiding it from others.

  She maintained her three part-time jobs. From the serving tables and the kitchen of Mrs. Stacy’s boardinghouse, she would hasten across to Mr. MacKenzie’s store to stock shelves or wait on customers. Then she would hurry off to Miss Dover’s and sew as fast as she could treadle the machine until it was time again to help prepare the evening meal.

  After her kitchen work was done, she would often scurry off to Miss Dover’s again to put in a bit of work on her own garments before climbing into her bed and turning to her Bible.

  She had her own Bible now. Miss Dover had seen to that. Damaris had never had such a treasured possession and she could hardly believe her good fortune. She read before she went to the kitchen in the morning and again when she retired at night. She memorized verses that caught her attention and reviewed them silently as she worked on one task or another. Every day she learned and grew—but she did not release her bitterness. She simply tried to smother it with the positive lessons she was learning daily.

  There were many days when things went well and Damaris could forget that she had ever felt angry, bitter, and alone. She had her God. She could talk to Him as a friend—just as Gil had done that first Christmas she had spent at Miss Dover’s. She had her Bible. She could turn to its pages for strength and direction. She even had friends—Gil would say “family,” but Damaris still found it difficult to consider herself part of the family even though Gil apparently did not.

  Yet, life was good. Damaris enjoyed keeping her hands busy and seeing her small account and her wardrobe grow. She was making out quite well on her own. She did not let herself think of the far-away home where her mama might still be struggling with her drunken pa.

  Another spring passed to summer and summer to fall. Damaris marked another birthday, but again she told no one of the special day. She smiled softly to herself as she thought of her circumstance. She was nineteen now. Well past the age that her mama had said a girl ought to be able to be on her own. Damaris felt that she had come of age.

  Gradually she began to open up to the people of the community—though one would hardly have said that Damaris was friendly or outgoing. Yet she was kind and thoughtful. Especially with children. She still thought often of the young Edgar. Mr. Brown had not been to the MacKenzie store for many months, and Damaris ached to know how the young boy was doing.

  He’s no longer a baby, she reminded herself. He’s a boy now—and he’d feel ashamed to trail around on a woman’s skirts. He likely wouldn’t even remember me, she told herself one day as she thought about him. She was not prepared for the pain that the acknowledgment brought to her heart. Then in typical Damaris fashion, she pushed the ache aside and determined to forget the little boy from her past and go on with life.

  One day as Damaris dusted and straightened shelves at Mr. MacKenzie’s store, she heard a faint rustling behind her. When she turned she could see no one. She knelt to her task again.

  Then she heard a soft, whispery voice speak timidly. “Ma’am? Ma’am? I need sumpin’.”

  Damaris rose and scanned the room before her, still seeing no one. Then she spotted her—a small girl, not yet big enough to see over the counter.

  Damaris smiled.

  The fright went out of the pair of blue-green eyes, but the little girl did not smile in return.

  “Could I help you?” Damaris asked.

  The small one reached up to dump some coins on the counter from a sticky, moist hand.

  “Mama needs some salt and sugar,” said the shy child.

  Damaris looked at the dirty face and soiled dress.

  She would be pretty if she were clean, she thought.

  Damaris got the salt and sugar and handed them to the girl.

  “How would you like a penny candy?” Damaris asked.

  The little girl shook her head.

  “You wouldn’t like a candy?” asked Damaris in surprise.

  “I got no money,” responded the child.

  “Well, I—I am allowed to treat my friends,” responded Damaris. “You see I have an account here.” She pulled her account sheet from the counter shelf in front of her. “You see,” she said, showing the card to the little girl. “I just write the candy here on my account and it is all paid for.”

  Damaris wrote the item and amount on the sheet and then lifted a penny candy from a jar.

  The child shook her head again.

  “Don’t you like candy?”

  “Pa says thet takin’ things is—is sharity,” responded the little one.

  “Charity? Not—not if it is—is sharing by a friend,” argued Damaris. She waited for a minute as the child seemed to contemplate the dilemma. “Do you understand sharing?” asked Damaris.

  The little head nodded and the eyes grew wider and more intense. “That’s a pro’lem,” she sighed.

  “What problem?” asked Damaris.

  “Willim and Tootles would want some, too,” she explained.

  “Willim and Tootles?”

  “She’s not really Tootles,” explained the little girl, and for the first time she allowed herself a little grin. “We jest call her thet fer fun.”

  “What is her name?” asked Damaris, happy to have found a subject that brought a smile to the sober little girl’s face.

  “It’s Florence,” said the child. “Florence Ann.”

  “That’s a pretty name,” said Damaris. “I like it. And what is your name?”

  “My name is Abi
gail. Abigail Prudence—but Mama calls me Abbie.”

  “That’s pretty too,” said Damaris.

  The child tilted her head slightly and looked at Damaris. “What’s yer name?” she asked suddenly.

  “It’s—Damaris.”

  “Dam-a-ris. I never heard thet name afore.”

  “No. It’s not common,” agreed Damaris.

  “But pretty,” said Abbie, wanting to return the compliment.

  “Yes. I like it,” said Damaris. “It’s taken from the Bible.”

  Damaris felt pleased with her name now that she herself had become a believer. She wished she could explain it all to the little girl. She wondered if the child had ever heard any of the Bible stories. If she even knew that such a thing as a Bible existed. Or was she as ignorant as Damaris herself had been?

  Damaris still held the penny candy. She extended it to the child again. “I will give you one for Willim and Tootles, too,” she promised with a smile.

  “I’d better not,” the child said, backing up a step. “Pa might not like it.”

  Damaris did not argue further but let the candy drop back into the jar. She did not want to get the girl into trouble.

  Abbie left then and Damaris watched her go.

  Poor little tyke, she thought as the door closed behind the small figure in the faded dress. Doesn’t even dare accept a penny candy.

  Then a new idea came to Damaris. “What we need in this town is a—a teacher!” she said aloud. “There’s no one here to teach Bible stories to the boys and girls. I—I wonder if their folks would let them attend if—if someone like—like Miss Dover—or—or me—were to start a Sunday morning class in place of a church service?”

  The thought was so new—and so exciting—that Damaris wondered why she had not thought of it before.

  “I’ll talk to Miss Dover when I go to sew this afternoon,” she determined.

  The remaining hours at the store seemed endless. Damaris chafed as she did her work, wishing she could leave immediately to tell Miss Dover her idea.

  Damaris approached the subject cautiously with Miss Dover. She wasn’t sure if she was being presumptuous in thinking she could take on such a sacred task.

  “You know how you—you and Gil are always saying that this town needs—needs a church and—and a preacher?” she began.

  Miss Dover raised her eyes from the dress she was sewing for Mrs. MacKenzie and nodded, interest showing in her eyes.

  “Well, what would you think if—if someone were to—to start—well, sorta classes for children.”

  “Sunday school?”

  Damaris looked surprised. “Is that what you call it?” she asked.

  Miss Dover nodded her head. “Classes where children are taught from the Bible? Yes, it is called Sunday school, because they are usually held on Sunday morning—and they are lessons.”

  Damaris nodded. It was exactly what she had thought of even though she couldn’t remember ever hearing of Sunday school.

  “It would be wonderful. I have prayed and prayed that someone would do that very thing,” said Miss Dover.

  “Then—then, why don’t we?’ asked Damaris.

  “We? You mean us?”

  Damaris nodded, her eyes fixed on the woman’s face. She watched the cheeks turn slightly red.

  “Why, I—I just never thought of—of doing it myself,” the woman sputtered.

  “But why not?” asked Damaris.

  “Well, I—I—” Miss Dover completed her unfinished sentence with a shrug of her shoulders and an embarrassed laugh. “Of course—why not? I don’t know why it never came to me before. Here I have been praying for years—when I could have been busy answering my own prayers. What a—a complete dummy I have been.”

  “Then you will help me?” asked Damaris.

  “Yes. Yes. I’d love to help you. Why, that’s exactly what needs to be done—at least until we can get a church. Who knows—if we get folks interested, we might get that church, after all. It’s a wonderful idea. Just wonderful. I can hardly wait to tell Gil.”

  Damaris’s thoughts turned toward the young man who was so busy that he seldom made it to town. She hadn’t seen him in months, though Miss Dover said he had called on her once or twice.

  ———

  The next weeks were busy with preparations and invitations. When the day finally arrived for the first Sunday school class, six children showed up. It was exciting for Damaris and Miss Dover. But they hoped for an increase in number within a short time.

  Damaris was disappointed that Abbie was not among those in attendance. Damaris had found out where the child lived and had paid a personal call on the household. A surly man had answered her knock and asked gruffly what she wanted. Damaris felt her knees tremble as she tried to answer.

  “My kids got no need fer Sunday school,” he growled at her. She could smell the liquor on his breath, and her heart ached for the man’s helpless children. Damaris retreated as soon as she was able, fear gripping her heart.

  So the Sunday school classes continued without the Rudding children, though Damaris still prayed that the day might soon come when they too would be able to join the group.

  She did see Abbie on occasion when the child came to the store for flour or salt, and once she met her on the dusty street. They always smiled at each other, but Damaris did not dare voice the invitation she longed to extend.

  ———

  Damaris was in the store folding yard goods to place on the shelf when the door opened and a young woman walked in, a child on her hip, a small girl clutching her skirt, and another little boy in tow.

  “I need some flour—and some yeast,” the woman said in a trembling voice.

  Damaris went to get the requested items. As she returned to the counter the door opened again and Abbie came in. The little girl gave Damaris a shy smile.

  “This is Willim and this is Tootles,” she explained.

  When Damaris realized that she was serving Abbie’s family, her smile widened.

  “So you are Abbie’s mother?” she said. “Mrs. Rudding? I’m happy to meet you. I’m Damaris Withers.”

  The young woman lowered her eyes and nodded her head in brief acknowledgement.

  “Abbie is a wonderful little girl,” went on Damaris. “So nice and polite.”

  She hoped the young mother would be pleased to hear of her child’s good behavior, but the woman neither smiled nor looked up. She seemed extremely nervous and fidgety.

  “Would you like me to put this in a sack for easier carrying?” Damaris asked.

  The woman managed a nod.

  Damaris placed the flour and yeast in a small brown bag and was passing it to the woman when a man burst through the door, slamming it back against the wall and making everything in proximity shudder in his presence. He seemed to be in a rage even before he entered. Damaris recognized him at once as Mr. Rudding.

  He strode directly to the counter and jerked the brown bag away from the woman who had just accepted it. Without a word he threw it back across the counter at Damaris. “I suppose this is your doin’,” he growled. “Talkin’ her into spendin’ my money on yer foolish notions.”

  Damaris could smell whiskey again. Before she could bring herself under control, her body began to tremble. The woman before her was cowering as though expecting to be struck. The little girl dodged behind her mother’s skirts, and the little boy ducked behind a wooden barrel and whimpered in fright. But Abbie stood firm in her place, not fleeing or fighting but prepared to take the brunt of the assault.

  The scene was all too familiar to Damaris. She had been that crouching child when she had been younger. Then she had been like Abbie. Silent, unmoving, and prepared for the worst.

  Damaris trembled for only a moment. Then the seething anger gave her boldness. She pushed herself to her full height, ready to give the man a piece of her mind or a piece of her fist, if need be; but the terrified look in the woman’s eyes stopped her short. It would not do to challenge
him. It would only bring more pain to his family. Damaris turned aside, her shoulders sagging. She was defeated again. It seemed there was nothing that could be done in the fight against alcohol. She turned her back and let the anger drain slowly from her, robbing her of strength and dignity as it left her.

  She could hear the man pick up the coins from the counter, could sense the mother gathering her children and ushering them from the store. She heard the curses and the slamming door, and then everything was quiet again.

  Damaris slumped against the counter, weak from the drain of emotions. She knew then that her old hatred, her old anger, had not been removed, only buried deeper within her being.

  Damaris covered her face with her hands and let the tears flow as the sobs shook her whole body.

  Chapter Twenty

  Fires of Rage

  Damaris was busy sewing at the treadle machine and Miss Dover was sitting on the cushioned chair to her right, hand-hemming a new baby dress, when the door opened and Gil entered. Miss Dover was immediately on her feet, her hands laying aside the garment and reaching out to the young man.

  “Gil! It’s about time. I thought you had forgotten all about me—about us.”

  Gil smiled and reached for the outstretched hands. “You know better,” he teased and leaned to kiss the woman’s forehead. Then he lifted his head, let his eyes rest a moment on Damaris, and smiled his greeting. “Hello, Damaris.” He had long since ceased calling her Miss Damaris. Apparently he was determined to make her feel part of the family.

  She answered with a smile of her own. She was beginning to feel comfortable with Gil. He never pushed, never intruded, never challenged her private thoughts.

  “How are things at the ranch?” asked Miss Dover.

  “Fine. Just got back from my first—my very first cattle drive. Took forty head of stock over to the freight yards. They brought a good price.”